


On Preoccupations, And Other Concerns

by larkingstock



Series: prompt nonsense [7]
Category: Lackadaisy (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, prompt, sometimes a girl's just gotta do what she's gotta do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15951797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkingstock/pseuds/larkingstock
Summary: Sometimes things going to plan can be overrated?





	On Preoccupations, And Other Concerns

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: **naked under the trenchcoat**
> 
> Lol, this prompt. It's ridiculous but I couldn't resist.
> 
>  
> 
> The prompt nonsense series: the ongoing travails of one anon's quest to reacquire their errant writing mojo, with no guarantee of consistency, continuity, compliancy, or character appreciation.

It is possible that a woman less poised, less captivating, less utterly secure in her charms and the besotted devotion of her wealthy and powerful husband, might, perhaps, be feeling a twinge of concern at the recent absentmindedness of his kisses. At the sensation that his eyes resting upon her curves see not the comely delights of her person, but some distant distraction, the nature of which is worrisomely unclear.

Mitzi May, naturally, only pities such women, or would, if the notion of such concerns even existing ever crossed her mind. Which they do not. The only concern that currently twirls within the rapidly spinning cogs of her mind is expressing her appreciation of Atlas's gift, a month or two ago, of a pearl necklace and earrings. If she is concerned at all, (and, darlings, do recall: she is not), it is only because it has occurred to her she had perhaps neglected to do so. And thus, the question of how to go about it most effectively, most...urgently eye-catchingly, has, _naturally_ , been a preoccupation of late.

As has the inspiration of a salacious story Zib once told her. However, soliciting his assistance for this would be a wrinkle Mitzi strongly prefers not to have to iron out. So strongly, that she has instead taken the very ill-advised, but only other option, of borrowing the trenchcoat of one Mordecai Heller. (She considers it a kindness, that this borrowing occurred when he had stepped out of his office for a few minutes. Knowing that he has loaned her his trenchcoat, let alone for what purpose, would only put unnecessary strain on the poor boy, and she would spare him that. At least until she's finished with it.)

She moves fast--Atlas does not usually take a long lunch--and it is with the sensual, heady thrill of the draft and the lining of the coat alternately playing with her naked form underneath that she steals through the empty hallway to his office. It must be staid married life that makes it feel too long since she did something like this, something that makes her heart trip with daring, a high better than the wildest parties with the best champagne her husband could smuggle.

She stands at the door of her husband's office, fluffs her curls and smooths down the trenchcoat over her tingling breasts and belly, and considers perhaps married life doesn't have to be so stifling, after all.

Mitzi raises her hand to knock on a door that is suddenly opening to bring her face-to-face with the startled expression of one Mordecai Heller.

"Argh!"

" _Argh_!"

It is with the utmost rapidity that Mitzi ascertains that the room Mordecai is leaving is both dark and empty. Specifically, empty of her husband, which means the major crisis in this rapidly evolving scenario has been averted.

"What are you--"

"I wasn't--Is that my--?"

They both take a subtle moment to straighten, calculation sliding over instinct.

"Where is Atlas? What were you doing in his office without him?"

"Mr May went out to lunch, and I am attempting to conduct the business he assigned me in the interim." No doubt satisfied that his reply given is both sufficient and entirely unsuspicious, the young hitman's mouth takes on the line of prim disapproval it gets when he is completely bewildered and desperate for it not to show. "That is my trenchcoat," he states, in what he probably imagines is a tone of icy accusation.

Mitzi's own mouth twitches, and it's already too late. Sometimes the impulse to pounce is simply too tempting to resist. Especially when it's Mordecai.

"It is," she agrees, her smile growing, watching his discomfort growing with it.

"Well." He draws together every shred of outraged dignity, which for Mordecai is saying something. "I don't know why you made free with my garments, madam, but allow me to assure _you_ , that my being in your husband's employ does not entitle you to such liberties!"

Mitzi's eyes widen. "It doesn't?"

"No, madam, it does not!" He has begun, slightly, to vibrate. It is hilarious, and Mitzi does not bother hiding the fact in her expression.

"Oh." She fingers the material wrapped around her, then looks back up at him, laughter dancing in her eyes. "But I was chilly."

"I am not obliged to supply for deficiencies in your wardrobe!" he practically screeches. "Give it back!"

"Are you sure?" It's the coyest, flirtiest wheedle she can manage, which for Mitzi is saying something. " _I_ think it suits me."

"I am, and it doesn't! Give it back this instant!"

Mitzi pouts, but shrugs, and pulls the single knot tying the belt closed loose in one tug. Watching Mordecai very, very closely, she lets the coat slide to the floor.


End file.
